


Fortune's Sun

by trillingstar



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Community: oz_wishing_well, Episode Tag, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillingstar/pseuds/trillingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever the fallout, if Toby makes it out alive, he'll blame you.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune's Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Tag for S1's _To Your Health_.
> 
> Written for the [Oz Kiss-A-Thon](http://oz-wishing-well.livejournal.com/30016.html) &amp; [Oz Porn Tuesdays](http://trillingstar.livejournal.com/182013.html). This bunny jumped me after MobFest (Dean Winters is magic, people. Magic.), but I'd been looking for a reason to write some Ryan/Toby for Ozsaur, et voila. Title taken from _De Montfort_, by Joanna Baillie.
> 
> Thank you to my sparkly-pantsed angel of awesome, Dustandroses, for the readthrough.  
> 

  
You know better than to make friends in prison, and that's not what this is, anyway. He's not a friend, he's just a guy. In here, he's a nobody, no connections, no jizz. Still, he's a guy who works in the nun's office, someone who could be useful. A guy who used to be a lawyer, maybe he can save you a few bucks on filling out forms. A guy who's more miserable-looking than you were on your first trip upstate. So what if being around him makes you want to sling your arm around his shoulders and pull him close, your foreheads pressed together as you tap out some of his bliss onto the curve of your hand.

You're sitting close enough that you can nearly touch your nose in his hair for the scent of shampoo. He makes you want to load up his nose with smack and then watch him nod and giggle, a huge, foolish grin on his face. You're gonna do that anyway, so you'll allow yourself to stare at the line of his throat when he throws his head back after a hit; watch the shadows bouncing off his blond head; his thick swallow and then the clench of his fingers, moving restlessly against his thighs; the drawn-out, boneless slump against the wall.

You slide down next to him. Drinking songs are more your style, but there's something about how Toby looks, sitting in a patch of sunlight on the cool cement floor, that makes you feel poetic.

Some guy approaches and you wave him off majestically. You're busy.

Toby beams at you, twitching his fingers closer to your thigh, his cheeks flushed hotly. One of these days, he's going to get brave enough to touch you, and you're not sure that you'll be able to slap him down. For all of his drinking - and everyone knows that's what got him here - you'd bet he's never done anything more than a few puffs on a joint or dropping a little acid, which is what makes watching him even better. You're the guy who gets him where he wants to go, and he'll always remember you for that. Probably not so fondly, sometime soon.

Yeah, you're the one who doesn't want anything back. You're the guy who reminds Toby that he's a person, someone real, someone who doesn't call him "hole." Probably you just feel sorry for him, poor fucker.

The easy part is that he wants to be held, soothed. The easy part is letting yourself imagine the feel of his thighs under your hands, or the murmur of agreement he'll make when you take off his glasses, or if he'd lick his lips between kisses. The hard part is that he's got a big mouth when he's high, which is always, and you can just imagine the fallout on the deals you've got going - hell, your jizz would disappear so fast you'd probably get whacked. Not an option. Okay, you want to be honest with yourself, _honestly_, the hard part would be that he'd cramp your style. He's never going to be your prag, and he's gotta belong to somebody since he sure as shit can't take care of himself. He'll want to be friends, and you'll never give him an inch, and - look. It just wouldn't play out the right way. You're in fucking Oz, for fuck's sake.

The fuck do you know; you're snorting tits alongside him.

He sounds so confident when it's just the two of you, after a couple of hits, when he blinks slowly at you from where he's lying flat on the floor. He'll tuck his hands under his head, cross his ankles like you're at a garden party, and he tells you what he misses: sex, alcohol, his rights. Pretty much what every other fuck in here misses. But then he'll go on, tell you about proposing to his wife in Paris; the house they had near Whistler; when he and his brother went wind-jamming along the coast of Maine. You could listen to those stories all day. You wouldn't listen if it was anyone but Toby doin' the telling. But it is, and then there's that tiny smile that plays over his mouth sometimes when he's looking at you, and you know what that look means, and still you stay. You keep him around, and more than that, you make sure that he's around.

You know better. You know so much better.

There's no way you can gentle him away; you'll have to be brutal.

So when he shows up at your side, arms criss-crossed over his chest, eyes huge behind his glasses, you give him shelter. The moment you see the shirt, you know. Fucking Schillinger doesn't have the balls to off his prag and wants the niggers to airhole Beecher instead?

When he asks for a way out, you give it to him. You load him up, spin him around a few times, and you remind him that it's Vern who's the coward, the rapist, the bad guy.

And then you slip, because you kiss him. It starts out as a go get 'em, tiger, backslapping kind of hug that slides into a longer hug. You're tense, but he smiles at you through the haze, and your skin feels so hot you think you might melt. You stare at him for a few seconds and then you kiss him. You're hesitant, pressing your lips against his gently, and then he sighs a little against your open mouth. Then he's scratching his fingernails against the back of your neck and you've fisted your hands in his hair, pushing and holding him to the wall. His glasses bump your cheek, a sliver of cool in your self-made hell.

You shove him away, reeling from the kiss, but it's too late. You know that Toby thinks it's a promise of things to come. He reaches out.

No mercy, you think. Vicious. Forget it. Erase it. You're a cold-hearted son of a bitch for everyone else in this godforsaken place, and you sure as hell can do it for Toby, too. You can, and you will.

You pant out Schillinger's name, and Toby blinks, stops. He nods, waiting while you dole out one more big hit. He licks your hand afterwards, lapping rhythmically long enough for you to wonder what kind of sick shit Vern makes him do.

That's not what you want, anyway. Not even close. Toby's revved up now, buzzing and restless, shifting from foot to foot. Whatever the fallout, if Toby makes it out alive, he'll blame you. You hope.

When he's halfway up the stairs, you slouch out to the quad and pull up a chair. Look, just because you're a ruthless bastard doesn't mean you wouldn't like a little show. Call it payment for services rendered.

  
_Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world_   
_But those who slide along the grassy sod,_   
_And sting the luckless foot that presses them?_   
_There are who in the path of social life_   
_Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun,_   
_And sting the soul._   



End file.
